


A Last Minute Prayer

by Kienova



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Related, Episode: s03e01 Laws of Nature, Episode: s03e02 Purpose in the Machine, F/M, Religion, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13508913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kienova/pseuds/Kienova
Summary: He hasn’t prescribed to organised religion since he was a child, and yet, when it feels like he is drowning in the eleventh hour, desperate to get her back from the monolith, he finds himself wandering into the Basilica, needing to do everything he can to find her.





	A Last Minute Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I read about Basilicas till 3am and have a father that's a minister.

The chapel is dimmed when he walks in, shoes tapping against the marble floors. It’s late. Nearly closing time, as the bored looking man at the entrance had told him. He can hear the mass being said in the adjacent chapel, the few people standing in the shrine silent. He knows he doesn’t look like the other pilgrims, clothes showing signs of wear, dust adhering to the cuffs of his trousers and sweat sticking to his skin beneath the unforgiving linen of his shirt and jacket. He had loosened his tie once he was out of Morocco, the silk hanging limp around his neck.

He doesn’t know what had compelled him to veer from the airport in Padua to the Basilica, the vaulted ceilings and ornate carvings dwarfing him as he had slipped through the rows of candles and spot lights, trying to keep himself away from the devout men and women who were filtering into the service.

He remembers his mother dragging him to church every Sunday, without fail, until he was eleven and so consumed with school work that she knew she could no longer keep his attention to their old priest with his monotone homilies. He wonders, absently, if she only allowed him to stop going and become a lapsed Catholic because she knew he would be safe at home, his father no longer a looming presence.

He hasn’t prescribed to organised religion since he was a child.

The last of the visitors move away from the tomb in the centre of the room, a few mumbling quietly in Italian as he edges closer, heart pounding beneath his ribs. He never thought he would be in a church again; let alone standing before the tomb of St. Anthony. He barely remembers anything that his mother tried to teach him about Christianity . He never went to Sunday school, never remembered any of the Biblical passages that his mother could recite from memory. Doesn’t remember anything really, aside from a few lines of a few prayers or the rote response of “and also with you,” even after having heard his mother complain that they had changed things, something to do with the Spirit instead.

He wishes, almost, that he had paid more attention as he lets his legs give out beneath him, kneeling in front of the marble, throat tight.

He doesn’t want to believe. Wants to be sure that science tells him what is and what isn’t. And yet, his desire to have Jemma back makes him willing to do anything. To question his long standing beliefs in the universe and to allow the thought of something  _ other _ into his mind.

He takes a deep breath, hand shaking as he makes the Sign of the Cross, the action feeling foreign and brittle before his palm presses against the green marble, eyes clenched shut against the last of the lights in the room. Fitz shakes his head, trying to calm his breathing and the racing of his heart as he recalls the prayer he heard his mother say hundreds of times. The only one he can still remember, his mother’s soft lilt echoing in his head from when he would see her praying beside her bed at night. Asking for guidance. For help.

“O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of Saints, your love for God and Charity for His creatures, made you worthy, when on earth, to p-possess miraculous powers. Encouraged by this thought, I implore you to obtain – t-to help me, please, to find Jemma. To find a way to bring her back, please. I- I don’t... I need her. I need her to be okay. G-gentle and loving St. Anthony, whose heart was ever full of human sympathy, whisper my p-petition into the ears of the sweet Infant Jesus, who loved to be folded in your arms; and the gratitude of my heart will ever be yours. A-amen.” The words are broken and shaky but he manages to get them out. “Please, God, bring her back to me.” He doesn’t move his hand from the tomb of the Saint, too busy trying to keep himself from falling apart completely, the knowledge that the scroll casing, his last real lead, is in his satchel. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it doesn’t tell him how to get her home.

He feels a palm on his shoulder, the hand gentle but firm, drawing hit attention up. A priest stands next to him, the older man looking worn but compassionate.

“I told the guard to give you a few more minutes,” the priest says, his Italian accent thick in the dim light of the room. “Would you like some company?” Fitz opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find the words even as his knees ache against the stone floor.

“Father... w-will God still listen? Even though I don’t have any real faith?” The query comes out with a sob, the tears he’s been holding back spilling over his lashes as he looks up. The priest squeezes his shoulder tighter, a sad smile on his face.

“My son, you still have some faith left, even if you do not see it for yourself. You are here, in the tomb of our beloved Sant’ Antonio, are you not?” the words are gentle and empathetic. “God hears you, even on days when you cannot accept that He is listening.” Fitz nods, taking a few minutes to calm his breathing before he stands up on weak legs, accepting help from the priest before he wipes his eyes.

He has to get to the airport, back to the team.

Back to trying to find Jemma.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I hope our beloved Saint helps you to find what you are missing,” the priest calls as he leaves the room.

XxX

When she’s lying in the containment pod, still exhausted and covered in dust, he allows the tears to fall, holding her hand to his lips as he cries, peppering her battered knuckles with kisses.

He lets his mind swim, from the last six months of desperately following every lead he could find. To nearly being shot in Morocco. To praying, truly, for the first time in his life. To seeing the word ‘death’ on the parchment. To Coulson telling him to say goodbye. To screaming at the monolith. To the whirlwind of finding the sand, Dr. Randolph, and then to ripping through the fabric of space to another planet and back. To having Jemma in his arms at the bottom of a well, covered in parts of the exploded rock that had taken her from him in the first place.

“How – how did you find me?” she asks, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion as she turns her head to look at him, fighting against the desire to sleep.

“A lot of research,” he responds, stroking over her palm with the hand that is still holding hers while the other comes up to her cheek, pushing her hair off of her forehead as he cups her face. He blushes, breaking their gaze to kiss her fingers again. “And... and I prayed.”

The words are a confession. She knew that he was like her, that he prescribed to science above all else. And yet he had fallen back to the beliefs of his mother, simply because he needed more than the concrete answers could give him. She laughs quietly, threading their fingers together.

“It was a proper church, too,” he rambles, trying to memorise the feeling of her fingerprints against his thumb. “A Basilica, actually. For a proper Catholic saint; he’s buried there, apparently. St. Anthony of Padua. Actually remembered a prayer that my mum used to say to him all the time and everything.” She squeezes his fingers, muscles weak, but he feels the change in pressure regardless.

“I guess I’m going to have to be less of an atheist the next time your mum wants us to go to mass with her,” she smiles, watching him shudder out a broken chuckle as he curls over her, kisses pressed to her temple, neck, and shoulder, nuzzling against the side of her face for a moment before he pulls back. Despite the tears, he’s beaming, love and relief painted across every line of his face.  “You’ll... you’ll be here till I wake up, right?” she questions, eyes fluttering shut.

“Always,” he responds without hesitation. He watches her for a while, letting the reality that she’s home and safe finally wash through him. It’s only when he hears her breathing even out in sleep that he kneels down beside her, keeping her hand in his even then as he bows his head, hand still rusty in practice as he makes the Sign of the Cross.

“Thank you,” he says, voice barely audible in the room. “Thank you for letting me find her. For letting her be okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3  
> For any of you that don't know about Christian saints - St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost items/ people and travellers, hence why Fitz was praying to him. 
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://www.kienova66.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat :)


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